Amsterdam Sixty-Two: Inside-Out, Outside-In

Indexing. Morning and afternoon. An email. From Sterre. “Michael, meet me tomorrow at Cameleon Theater at 18:00. It’s at 3E Derde Kostverlorenkade (on the Schinkel) just off Overtoom.” I replied. “Cool. See you there!” I found the location on a map. Easy enough to get there, a bit further than OT301. But that was tomorrow. What about tonight?

I went out—it was cold and damp—and rode my bike to Leidsestraat, checking out a smart shop I had often passed. They had many of the same varieties of the other smart shops. There was a tall, middle-aged Dutchmen, quite amicable, who was talkative and fun-loving. I bought a dose of Hawaiian and one of Colombian. Mixing up the types of doses was a good approach for me.

I rode down Keizersgracht most of the way back home. Such a different feel than the previous night. Not as vibrant, I didn’t become a stately gentleman, but I still noticed how riding along Keizersgracht versus Kerkstraat affected my perception of myself and the city. The two streets were about a block from one another but one ran along a canal with huge mansions and buildings whereas Kerkstraat had no canal, the street was narrower without such a wide-open expanse to view further away, and thus had a cozier feel, the relatively smaller buildings adding to that atmosphere. I couldn’t say one was better than the other; they were just different. I liked each of them in their own way, but I definitely felt differently riding along them. Kerkstraat made me feel more “local” while Keizersgracht made me feel like a traveler passing through a grandness that was definitely not my own, a privileged experience that felt like it couldn’t happen every day—even though it could. Strange.

I had eaten before I went out. I ate both doses of the mushrooms with crackers while drinking a beer. An odd mix of flavors, without question. I went to the living room, turned on a reggae station, and smoked hash. I opened the window and had a cigarette. The cold darkness of early evening seemed to have cleared the street of traffic. More cars passed than pedestrians or cyclists. Disappointing. I closed the window and sat down on the rug to sketch with colored pencils. I had no predetermined intention, as was my way. What developed over fifteen minutes was a cityscape. I didn’t see it while I was creating it, but the vertical and horizontal lines mixed with the curves suggested an urban landscape as seen from above. I teased this out, filling in certain parallels of particular colors as roads and aligned curves of another color as canals; squares, rectangles, rhombuses, circles, ovals, all of different sizes and several different types of colors I shaded as residential buildings, retail shops, cafés, office buildings, government buildings, grand theaters, hotels, music venues, museums, parks, and so on.

I smoked more hash as I pulled back to look at the sketch again. I lost the cityscape; it had somehow disappeared with the applications of shaded and condensed color. It seemed to be simply jumbled chaos, but as I leaned back another foot from it I saw a multitude of compositions. There was a face, neo-Cubist, spectacular in expression, a mixture of horror and confusion; I saw bodies tangled one upon another, limbs unattached to bodies while some bodies were mostly whole, and two bodies, amazingly, were intertwined in an embrace; a landscape also appeared as if seen from a distance but through thickets of tree limbs, rolling hills of green grass, lavender fields, flowing yellow wheat, and a blue-and-red sky, a sky bloody from a distant battle or a splintered sun, the blues harsh, dark, the onset of dusk.

I lost myself looking. More compositions became the longer I looked. I gasped at times when something I hadn’t seen materialized as the whole of the drawing! New compositions appeared again and again, but even the compositions that I had discovered earlier changed as different areas transformed from being one thing to another. A scene of a castle ballroom became a room filled with men and women clawing at one another. Then, surprisingly, the cityscape as seen from above reemerged. Wow. The sketch could become anything at any time even though the drawing no longer changed. At times, though, I saw that a new composition could become if I added a pink or a combination of grey-blue and forest green. I saw those completed works without adding the colors and I chose not to add them because I knew doing so would alter the compositions that currently existed. I also discovered I could block out colors that were present to see what the composition would look like without them. Fascinating.

I realized the shrooms had been active while I was viewing. I didn’t give that realization my attention, though, as I had been wrapped up in the sketch even before the shrooms began affecting me. I continued looking, amazed that I could create drawings that contained so many visions, possibly endless. The number and variety depended on my eyes, on my perception, on my willingness to allow what was there to speak, to change languages, to shift emotionally. As always, the creation of a drawing is only half the art; the other half comes from viewing. In this case, I composed both halves of the artistic process as creator and viewer. Different emotional, intellectual, and sensory qualities accompanied each half. Viewing filled me with awe whereas the drawing was imbued with intensity of movement in relation to decision making. There was decision making in the viewing process as well, but so different I couldn’t compare the two. Both processes required intense attentiveness; however, the attentiveness of drawing was directed from inside-out while the attentiveness of viewing was an allowance of outside-in.

Doing one without the other seemed dangerous, imbalanced. To only allow outside-in without directing inside-out left me at the whim of what was external to me. To only direct inside-out was to be oblivious of how I interacted with the world, of my impact on it, and of ever changing in relation to it. In this sense, the process was related to far more than drawing and viewing sketches or the artistic process itself; this was the process of relating to the world. Individuals in positions of unchecked power might be good examples of more or less exclusively living an inside-out process whereas an elementary school students or drone-like worker bees might be good examples of people forced to become live an outside-in life. Most people were trained to absorb knowledge and understanding through an outside-in process which is likely why they had so little understanding of how they thought, why they followed rules well but didn’t know how to direct their lives outside of highly structured environments.

A person in the practice of living both inside-out and outside-in had a natural advantage in the sense of being able to see the dynamic complexity of self/other relationships and recognize that the relationship between the two constituted a whole. There could be no such thing as “You Are Either With Us Or Against Us.” Self was not more important than other but neither was other more important than self. Symbiosis, synthesis. This practice affected everything: Political persuasion, personal relationships, ethics, aesthetic appreciation, creative thinking, emotional regulation, sensory experience and exploration, sense of self, responsibility to others, and on and on endlessly.

This was not a one plus one or two plus two equation. My quality of living and scope of perception did not merely double; it expanded immeasurably because it was a constant feedback loop. To remain inside-out or outside-in meant remaining relatively static moment to moment, day after day, year after year. Meanwhile, to constantly inhale what was external and exhale what was internal meant a constant flow of exchange, a dynamic and always expanding relationship. Who I might be by the end of a given day could be radically different than who I had been at the beginning of the day.

I needed only to examine the previous week for evidence, from meeting Sterre before the sex party, through the sexual experiences, the last day of cleaning and conversing, the day and night with Daniel and Alex, the return to Bloem in the morning and the night cycling while shrooming the previous day to appreciate how I changed each day and how radically I had changed in less than a week's time. Even a very short period of time, the first fifteen minutes listening to Andy, changed something within me. My perspective of Amsterdam shifted and expanded and my appreciation for his being became. Diversity added to life and by allowing his flow within me I became more diverse as a result. My decision to cycle while shrooming was an act of inside-out direction and the routes I took were as well, but by being open to the environment surrounding me I transitioned from a lover on Reguliersgracht to a regal gentleman on Keizersgracht, in both cases allowing the outside to influence what was inside.

During the course of my visits to Amsterdam, I allowed far more of what was outside to come inside because I needed the nourishment Amsterdam offered. I had been internally malnourished and thus had less within to give out. That was rapidly changing. Busking was an obvious example as was approaching Sterre. There were others even from the first trip: Choosing to meet Vanessa then helping her financially as well as putting myself in a position to meet Daniel, Nina, and Anabel.

I hadn’t fully identified these dynamics, but through sketching then viewing I discovered the process. If this process was like breathing then my breathing had been feverishly irregular and was now becoming more regular. Rolling these thoughts around my head was sort of like holding a toke of hash in my lungs so that the THC could more fully penetrate. These thoughts were marinating and I realized I had periodic marinating periods, times when I held within what I had inhaled from without. I never truly exhaled everything inhaled--how could that lead to expansion?--but what I exhaled became part of the environment through actions, nonverbal expressions, or words (spoken or written then shared).

With that analogy in mind, I reached for my one-hitter and loaded more hash. I inhaled and exhaled, inhaled and exhaled, then moved to the window to have a cigarette. I opened it and, while still cold and damp, there were more pedestrians and cyclists, fewer vehicles. As the hours passed, especially later in the week, the traffic shifted away from cars to human-propelled locomotion. As I watched I thought of how incredibly important the concrete world of sensation was. The thoughts I had were insightful and useful, but without application and practice in relation to the external (other) they were a disease.

This was especially true while shrooming. I was learning more every time I shroomed. It was very easy to get lost in thought, in “otherworldly” manifestations of emotions and ideas and even to interpret sensory experience as superior to “sober” experience. Viewing my sketches allowed a concrete interaction with the world even as the otherworldly experience of seeing so many compositional variations within the same “oneness” occurred. This was another form of synthesis, a relationship between the concrete and the fantastical, the two tethered to one another. Neither extreme existing without relation to the other seemed particularly healthy to me. To become overly fantastical—which had happened on occasion—felt like being completely in another world. My capacity to interact with the “regular” world disintegrated.

Meanwhile, to be too rooted in the concrete world without imagination or surprise was to narrow the scope of what existed to such a degree that narrow-minded and fixated thinking became dominant, diminishing emotional range and limiting sensory experience—existing as "dullness,” far below the experiential capacity of being. This seemed to be how most humans experienced life, though. It partially explained indifference to subtle and sometimes even exaggerated differences in sights, sounds, smells, tastes, touches, feelings, and thoughts. A person who thought little of the difference between a mall parking lot compared to a Japanese garden existing in a space made my head spin. How could anyone find such a difference inconsequential? I was angered by this at times, but increasingly I felt sorrow that the most of the world was made ugly by such mindless insensitivity and for the dullards who were either unwilling or incapable of noticing such differences and, thus, not experiencing the profundity of living.

Then again, I felt sorrow that I had only managed to realize this much. Undoubtedly there were beings living a much fuller actualization of their potential and, thus, I was living less fully than they were, either incapable or unwilling to expand to a greater fullness of my own capacity. That sorrow was muted, though, as I had been willing to live as fully as possible over the past several months. This had not been the first time in my life I had dedicated myself to learning how to live, either. It wasn’t a contest, though; there would be no winning—although there might be losing. Strange how that could be, but there was the possibility.

I watched out the window, looking at a man of indeterminate age wandering toward the Magere Brug. His gait was steady, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, head bowed low. He wore a long black wool coat extending to his knees. The trousers were black, but of a shimmering quality, flapping and splaying, clearly not thick material, extremely free in flow. A scarf covered his neck—and may have made his hunch shoulders appear more pronounced than they were. He wore a black hat with what appeared to be lighter brown hair poking out from the sides. His shoes, too, were black, not shiny, not boots; no, urban walkers.

Watching with attentiveness, observing a person walk to the extent that the rest of the street disappeared and I became oblivious to the lights that made seeing what I had possible, created a certain effect. It drew me out of myself in a way that detached me from my thoughts and emotions. If I had judged the man in any way then that would not have been the case; I would have been using thoughts fueled by expectations and preferences which would have undoubtedly been attached to either favorable or unfavorable emotions. I made no judgments, though. I simply observed, noticing what he was wearing and how he was walking until he was out of my line of sight.

What was gained by doing such a thing? What was lost? Had I learned anything useful? Was I influenced in any way? I merely stopped thinking as I had been and noticed what I saw while looking at him. By not trying to glean a thing I meditated without attempting or meaning to meditate. Observing what is not me is a way of being with the world for no purpose other than to be with something other than me. What was lacking in this observation was imagination. I did not tell a story of the man’s walking. I didn’t speculate about where he had come from nor where he was going, why he dressed the way he did and not another way, or any other imaginative wonderment or analysis. Allowing imagination to go on hiatus and avoid creating a narrative is a good thing now and then. Observation for the sake of observation (rather than for the purpose of discovery) had many unintended side effects, most of them seemingly healthy.

The stereo was still exuding reggae. The volume was so low, though, that it never attracted my conscious attention. If I had been focused on it, the quality of the experience of listening to it would have been enhanced. So? Knowing that seemed to be enough. Nevertheless, it was startling to discover that music was playing. So much happened all at once all the time that it was almost always a surprise to discover anything that had been there all along. I recalled noticing the prints on the walls during the first week of my visit, being shocked that I hadn’t noticed them in the days prior. The same with the plants.

The plants! I needed to water them again. I got off the couch and felt … strange. Moving was decidedly weird. Thinking became much, much more difficult. I had to talk my way through what I was doing so as not to forget. “I am walking to the kitchen to fill a pitcher with water so that I may pour the water into the plant containers … why am I speaking so formally? Seems really weird.” I stopped, took a breath, and started again. “I am at the sink and I am filling the pitcher. Turn off the water. Walk through the kitchen to the living room and water the plant in the corner.” I continued in this fashion, going back and forth to fill the pitcher and water the other plants. I had to reassure myself that every plant had been watered and that it was important not to saturate them with too much water.

I sat down on the couch again. “Fuck, when I’m sitting still I can think coherently, but when I move I can barely think at all.” No wonder the trip had seemed relatively mild and primarily cerebral. I now knew I was tripping hard. It was somewhat disconcerting that I could be fooled so easily into believing I was in control of all of my faculties. Different varieties and different dosages caused different effects, but even then shrooming was unpredictable. On one night, I might have powerfully enhanced sensory experiences and emotional mastery while not really being able to think. On another night, I might think at a high level with a narrow emotional range and a pert-near impossible ability to move functionally. The more I learned the more I realized there was no end to what could be discovered.

I thought about this. Well, I tried to think about what I had just thought, but I couldn’t find my way back to the thought. I wasn’t sure what I was thinking … or if I was thinking. I looked at my hands, but that just confused matters. I made a sound with my voice, a garbled wail. That didn’t clarify anything. I saw the cigarettes on the table and declared, “Aha!” I remembered that when lost doing something, almost anything, was useful to regain some semblance of clarity. I lit the cigarette and inhaled. I tried to blow a smoke ring, but failed. I wasn’t frustrated, though; each failure made me more determined to succeed. When I came down to the butt without success, I put out the cig ... then lost track what I had been doing.

“I was just doing something. What was it? Is it important to know what it was?” Had I asked these questions before? It felt like I had. In some sense, it seemed like I had always been asking these questions, like it was an obsession to always be aware of what had occurred in the moment immediately preceding the next moment. Why would that be important? What a waste of time, a waste of life to attend to such a thing constantly. Was it constant, though?

“Was what constant?” I was thinking about something but I couldn’t remember what it was. It might have been important, but then again it might not have been. If it wasn’t important then I was wasting my time. But if it was important … I still might be wasting my time. What the hell does it mean for something to be important? What could possibly have been important the moment before now? Wouldn’t I be better able to create something really interesting if I always forgot what I had been doing in previous moments? What if I was drawing while somehow being incapable of seeing the markings I had created and thought that I was just starting to draw each moment? What if that happened the entire time I sketched and, then, when the paper was full, I saw it all at once, absolutely awed that a composition had completely formed in the moment after I believed I first started drawing. Wow.

“Man, I feel amazing. What a rush. I figured it all out! The past isn’t necessary. No, that’s not it. It’s not necessary to know or understand what came before. Maybe. What does that mean? What does that mean?” Fuck. “I can’t make sense of anything I’m thinking. I’m not sure what I’m thinking. Is this important? What does ‘importance’ mean, anyway? I think I already thought about that, but I can’t remember what I thought about it. Does that matter? What if I just keep thinking the same things over and over again for the rest of my life? Would that make me the Rain Man? Is that what goes on in the Rain Man’s head? There is no Rain Man. It was a movie. But autism is real. What is autism? Is it thinking the same thing over and over?”

I had no idea. It was all gibberish. Nonsense spewed forth for what may have been a moment or could have been eternity. The curse and blessing of the Rain Man. Maybe this was Alzheimer’s or dementia. No matter what it was it seemed pleasant. Yes, there was confusion, but it was infused with curiosity, a boundless curiosity, relentless. I wanted to know. Would discovering the same thing over and over throughout an entire lifetime be just as fulfilling as discovering something new each moment? How would anyone know? The person who always discovered the same thing over and over wouldn’t be able to tell that he was discovering the same thing over and over while the person discovering something new each moment couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to discover the same thing each moment. If it was merely the experience of discovery that filled one with satisfaction then it wouldn’t matter what a person discovered as long as the person discovered!

Again, I felt majestic. “I have discovered the answer. I am filled with a deep abiding satisfaction.” But how long does the satisfaction of each discovery last? A minute? An hour? Days or weeks? Did what was discovered factor into the length of time one was satisfied by the discovery? I didn’t know. I wondered if trying not to discover anything new after making a discovery could lead to endless fulfillment as long as I reminded myself--whenever my satisfaction waned--that I had discovered something satisfying, even if it had been twenty years earlier. Could curiosity and desire be vanquished? I didn’t know. If I explored the question then I would lose the satisfaction of my previous discovery. If I didn’t, I might lose the rush that comes from acting on curiosity? I needed to make a decision.

I paused and contemplated. The longer I contemplated, the less verbal I became. Eventually, I noticed I was staring at the wall across the room. “Why am I staring at the wall? What was I thinking about? Does it matter? What if it was important? What is ‘importance,’ anyway? Why am I concerned about what happened the previous moment?” I contemplated again, wondering why I was wondering. I couldn't remember.

“What was I just thinking about?”

Amsterdam Sixty-One: Night Cycling on Shrooms

I woke up feeling like hell. The alarm clock read 8:30 AM. I made myself get up and saw Daniel sleeping on the couch. I took a shower, forcing myself through the hangover. Once the water started flowing I felt better a little better. I brushed my teeth, wrapped a towel around me, and went to my room to change. Daniel was awake, watching the news. “I have instant coffee. Want a cup?” He nodded his head while lighting a cigarette. I made a couple cups and took them into the living room. I had a cigarette and blankly looked at the news. Nothing registered.

When Daniel saw the time he asked me if I wanted to go to Bloem with him. I shrugged my shoulders. “I have to get my keys. I called Isa; he said he’d meet me there. I’ll make you an omelet and some good coffee.” I laughed. “Sure. Sounds good.” We got our bikes and cruised down the Amstel. I rarely went this way to Bloem. I looked back at a huge picture window on Keizersgracht, stopped pedaling, and turned around. Daniel stopped, too. I pointed at the window. There was a painting so realistic yet space age that my jaw dropped. I motioned to Daniel and we went over to take a closer look at it. I said, “Damn, I need to start painting. Look at those colors.” Daniel replied “It’s photoshopped, blown-up and air-brushed.” As I looked closer I discovered he was right. I was disappointed. To have created that image by hand using paint would have been astounding, something few people in the world could have accomplished.

We rode slowly over to Bloem, talking painting and art on the way. Even though I liked the image created in the window, I agreed with Daniel that something had been lost in the digital age, the workmanship, skill, talent, and practice necessary when painting by hand while using brushes and other instruments for application. I had little respect for splatter painting as well. With digital technology, though, nearly anyone could create fantastic images without much time, effort, or skill; that diminished my appreciation because I was too aware that so little time and energy had been necessary in the creation of those images. They engendered boredom which was a shame because beauty became insignificant. If beauty could be created as easily as yawning what was it really offering? Daniel said, “It’s like coffee or winemaking. Yes, instant coffee will provide caffeine and a box of wine a good buzz, but if your palette is refined the difference between instant coffee and a fine espresso are divided by centuries. Technology in this sense reverses progress, diminishes art.”

I looked over at Daniel. I admired his sensibility. Fortunately, I was wearing my shades as the sun was blinding. He continued, “I haven’t seen a good painting for years. Not a contemporary painting. The techniques being used … it’s not art; it’s design.” I understood the distinction. I agreed, although I said, “There is a place for good design, though.” Daniel replied emphatically, “I agree! But design is a poor substitute for art.” Damn, he sounded like me … or maybe I sounded like him. Didn’t matter. We were on the same wavelength.

“You know the sketches you looked at last night?” Daniel nodded. “I’m tiring of the black and white drawings and even the colored pencils. They don’t appeal to me anymore. I need paint on canvas to really create the images I see in my head. I keep think about it and the urge is getting stronger.” Daniel asked, “What’s holding you back?” What was holding me back? “I suppose it’s nothing more than being busy working and going out all the time. Besides, the only images in my head right now are an omelet and coffee.” 

We made our way down Middenlaan and turned north onto Kerklaan. The sun definitely took the edge off the cold. The bike ride invigorated me a little, but I needed that coffee. As we crossed the bridge, I noticed how attractive and inviting Bloem was in the sunshine. I tried to imagine what it was like with all the tables out next to the canal in the summer. Relaxed. Blissful.Gezellig. Daniel and I locked our bicycles. Isa was inside Bloem so we entered. He greeted us as he handed Daniel his keys. “One of those nights, eh?” Daniel held up his hands. “Yeah, I suppose so.” Isa put on his backpack. “I have a class otherwise I’d stay for a bit.” Daniel gave him a wave, “No, no, go to class. Thanks for coming on short notice, Isa.” He waved good bye to Daniel and I then went out the side door.

Daniel started the espresso machine and did his work quickly. He complained about the machine and said he had been trying to talk the owner into getting a new one. He pulled out a magazine and showed me a state-of-the-art industrial-sized espresso maker. He had done the math and said that during the busy seasons they could sell x more cups of espresso, coffee, and cappuccino making y more dollars. He estimated the machine would pay for itself in about a year and then it would be all profit. More importantly, to both of us, the quality would be significantly improved.

We drank the double espressos. I felt instantly better and Daniel went to the kitchen to make breakfast. He invited me back and I checked out the kitchen for the first time. He mentioned how he wanted a new this, new that, to reorganize, redesign the entire interior, and make the cafe into “what it could be.” He told me he was paid partially in shares of the restaurant and that he was, at the time, forty percent owner. He needed another 25,000 Euros to make it to fifty percent. The owner leased the building so if he could gain over fifty percent ownership he would have the freedom to make the changes he wanted; plus, the name Bloem would be his. He mentioned the owner had another restaurant in another part of the city which was where he spent most of his time—when he spent time at his cafés any more. Daniel exclusively ran the daily operations of Bloem.

Daniel worked about eighty hours per week. During my binge-indexing stretches I worked like that for a few months, usually six or seven days a week. But I always took long breaks after jags like that. That was how S. and I had found the time to travel Europe on our honeymoon as well as other trips to Europe and around the U.S. I enjoyed my leisure time and my life’s goal was to not work, at least not in any way that felt like work. Indexing was the closest I could come to autonomy while still making enough money to live a lifestyle I enjoyed. Daniel had mentioned he hoped to do the same and he thought if he could gain majority ownership or, especially, sole ownership he would be able to retire within five or so years. The sooner he gained a majority share the better.

I was spending money at a clip that wouldn’t allow me to continue coming to Amsterdam for long trips like this forever. The shrooming, the eating and drinking out, the cost of rent, and other expenses were too great. I would have to index a lot more, but if I did I would be working eighty hours per week, sacrificing the balanced lifestyle that made living worthwhile. Daniel’s job allowed him to be social while working and I liked that. I figured I could work in a place like Bloem, but I also saw that there were plenty of responsibilities besides the social that took up Daniel’s time and energy. Still, Daniel clearly liked his work.

I thought about the day before, too, realizing that while the trip to see Jeff and Andy had been for work, it also led to a night of revelry. I understood, better than before, that there was an entire network of people working in the café and bar scene and that they really knew what was happening in the city, the best night spots and the off-the-grid party scenes. To the average person, whether tourist, techie, or accountant, a waiter was probably just a waiter, but the reality was that many of the hottest scenes were known by the folks waiting tables, tending bar, and managing cafés. They were spread all over the city and they connected with one another.

Daniel fixed my omelet as we talked about his business possibilities. "I wish I had the money because being an investor might allow me to get legal residency." I thought of my credit line, my income, and I thought it would be so tight that I would never climb out of debt. “Maybe someday. If I’d cut back on my lifestyle I could probably save enough, maybe get a loan. It would be tough, though. But, damn, I would love to do it, both to be working with you and to be able to live in Amsterdam permanently.” Daniel said he would be happy to have me on board.

The conversation shifted to becoming a citizen or legal resident. Daniel said he had residency and was in the process of attaining citizenship. “I have the option of dual citizenship, but I would probably give up U.S. citizenship.” He mentioned that immigration laws in Holland were far tougher than in the U.S. He also mentioned that with the EU there were tons of foreigners from throughout Europe living in Holland because of the new residency laws. The most significant influx had been from Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary, and Poland. “They bring a lot of crime, too.” I didn’t doubt it; it was similar in the United States. I thought of Vanessa and the story she told of how she had arrived in The Netherlands. I had looked up information on the Internet about the sex trade in Europe and Vanessa’s story was similar to stories described by human rights organizations.

I asked Daniel about other ways to become a resident or citizen. He said, "The best way would be to start a business, something that allowed you to hire employees. Anything that brings in more taxes to The Netherlands and provides jobs." I thought about this. "What if I started a guide service?" Daniel shook his head. "Too much competition. You'd have to come up with something special to offer that isn't otherwise being provided by other tour guides and companies. You could always try to become a tour guide yourself, but that's competitive, too." Hmmm. "What about becoming a shroom guide?" Daniel stopped what he was doing and looked up at me, laughing a little. "I have no doubt you'd be good at that, but I'm not sure that's the type of image Holland is looking to promote." Damn. Probably true.

"I suppose if I offered more refined and personalized guiding services. Individuals, couples, very small groups. Sex, drugs, fine dining, appreciation of good beers and liquors, introducing individuals to scenes they might not otherwise ever be able to find or experience during a short stay." Daniel nodded. "Possible. Unless you learned other languages you'd be serving exclusively English-speaking tourists." True. "There are enough English-speakers coming to Amsterdam. I could serve them exclusively. I'm not interested in guiding tourists, though. Travelers." Daniel again looked up at me, this time confused. I explained. "Individuals, couples, groups looking for more than the sights, more than just coffeeshops, people looking for experiences. In other words, I would be an experience guide." Daniel nodded his head. "I suppose that could work." I said, "If I drew up a business plan, marketed it, and found there was interest, maybe the government would grant me legal residency." Daniel laughed. "You'd working pretty hard just to try to live here." I considered that. "It would be worth it. The idea of not living here is ... I don't want to think about it right now."

I saw the clock reaching eleven. Daniel said he needed to go to his apartment to shower and change. He had been getting the place ready for customers as we talked. “With the sunshine it might get busy early.” I didn’t doubt him. “You can hang out if you want. I’ll be back soon.” I was tired but not as painfully hung over. The idea of biking back home wasn’t appealing. I figured I could go upstairs and nap on a bench then eat an early lunch. “Yeah, sounds good.” Daniel left through the side door and locked it from the outside. I walked upstairs to the windows looking out over the canal. It was such a beautiful day, walkers and cyclists passing on their way to somewhere. I went to the long bench against the wall and lied down. I used my jacket as a pillow and fell asleep.

Daniel woke me around 12:30. He put a cup of coffee on the table in front of me and said, “Customers are rolling in so ... time to wake up. I let you sleep for a little while, though.” I was disoriented. Waking up inside Bloem with sunshine glowing through the windows felt weird. There was a cute young woman sitting at a table next to the window. She wore earphones and tap-tap-tapped on her laptop. I drank my coffee in silence, my mind too groggy to think. The sun was glorious, but I wished it wasn’t. A dark, gloomy day would have been better. I rarely thought that, but even weak hangovers didn’t like bright sunshine.

Food. Needed more food. When I finished my coffee I walked downstairs. It wasn’t nearly as bright and for that I was grateful. I went to the bar and placed my cup near the sink. When Daniel came back around I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. Seemed like the perfect thing for my queasiness. A cappuccino, too. Daniel made the cappuccino but said it might be a bit before my food was ready. I noticed there were several customers at tables and nodded. Daniel be-bopped around the café and I marveled at him. Where the fuck did the man get his energy? I suppose the coke had allowed me to drink more than I would have the previous night. That was probably why my hangover was worse than his. Then again ... 

I thought of Andy and his lively insanity. Made me chuckle. I could listen to him talk for ages and had no doubt he could outtalk the ages. I loved De Gekraakte Ketel and Gollem. I’d be making trips back there soon enough, I figured. I would need to look at a map to figure out where they were, though. I had just followed Daniel, working so hard to keep up that I didn’t get a good sense of the route we took.

Daniel gave me a glass of water when my food arrived. I hadn’t even thought about water, but a damn fine idea. Fleur entered as I ate and got right to work. She gave me a smile and I waved, my mouth too full to speak. She and Daniel were busy, anyway. I imagined Dorlan or maybe the college kid (Caesar? Chester? I couldn’t remember) was cooking. I felt better after eating. Another glass of water then I was ready to go. I talked with Daniel briefly. He thanked me again for giving him a place to sleep. “Hey, any time.” He slapped me on the back, I put on my jacket, waved goodbye to Fleur, and left. I unlocked my bike and slowly rode home, this time taking Kerklaan to Nieuwe Kerkstraat across the Magere Brug. When I passed Middenlaan and saw Eik en Linde I realized it had been a long time. How long?

Hell, I’d been in Amsterdam about a month; it couldn’t have been that long ago. A month in Amsterdam, though, seemed like a year given how active I was. It had been less than a week since I had worked, but it seemed like a month. I needed to get cracking again. After the three-day sex party and previous day with Daniel and Andy just about every waking moment had filled with extreme activity. I loved it, but I needed to be balanced. Work and sleep, important parts of life. If I had created human biology and the economic system I would have done things differently, but for some stupid reason I wasn’t given that power. Unfortunate for everyone. I would have been great as God.

When I arrived home I locked my bike, went inside, and slipped into bed. Fuck, that felt good. I dozed off for a few hours. When I woke it was nearly five. I dressed and opened my laptop. I indexed for a bit and checked my email. Nothing from Sterre. A few emails from the States, fortunately none work-related. I replied to the emails then made some pasta. I saw the dose of McKennaii in the fridge. I forgot I purchased it before going to Bloem the day before.

Well, why not? I hadn’t dosed for nearly a week. I gobbled the shrooms along with the pasta. I needed a night for myself after socializing all week. I wanted to be outside, though. The temperature was relatively warm. I hadn’t really biked while shrooming. I needed to rectify that. I wanted to take in the architecture of Amsterdam, admire the canals, view the lights, appreciate the wanderers and cyclists as part of the city rather than individuals—I wasn’t dismissing their humanity; I simply wanted to appreciate Amsterdam as a whole rather than focusing exclusively on its parts.

I got dressed in my winter coat, scarf, and hat. Even though the temp was decent, cycling would make it colder. There was little wind, though; that was good. It was nearly nine when I left. The shrooms became active making it more difficult to unlock my bike. As I stood up and pulled the bike from the rack, I wondered if biking was a good idea. Probably best to cycle around areas I knew well. I started down Kerkstraat and made a left at Utrechtsestraat. I turned right on Prinsengracht and instantly felt soft and smooth on the dimly lit canal street with the beautiful trees lining it. I marveled at the lights in the windows of apartments. I slowed to look into one.

The apartment interior was beautiful. The walls were painted yellow and the soft lamp lights created an inviting glow. Antique furniture throughout. I felt like I was looking into a different century. A dignified older man walked into the room, sat on a chair, and opened a book. I was reading about him in a book of my own, sitting on an antique chair in a room of yellow reading about a man who was reading a book in an antique chair in a room of yellow. I was reading mirrors facing one another, the image of me reading about the man sitting in an antique chair in a yellow room repeating itself endlessly, the images becoming smaller and smaller and smaller; I was infinitely represented through reflection wondering if there was an original source I could call “me.”

The man looked up and saw me, snapping me out of infinity back into a moment, one not finite at all, a moment of totality in which nothing but the moment existed. Representation, especially static representation, was a lie—at least as representation. The mirror told the truth in the moment, it was what was reflected; a painting was a painting, not what anyone said it represented or meant. I realized I was staring at the man and that he was, in fact, real. Oh. I decided to pedal away as I didn’t want the man to have to look at me all night.

I turned north on Reguliersgracht, such a beautiful canal street. I felt the romance I always felt there, heightened by the shrooms. I was in love, completely, totally, madly in love. How could I have been anything but love? When I turned left onto Keizersgracht I understood why. I had become a stately gentleman, cycling through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, a man of wealth and power, not averse to philanthropy; in fact, I embraced philanthropy because it told a story to others that I was a man worthy of being wealthy as my charitable giving attested. I gave as a means to bolster my ego, to become admired by others who had less, to shame my peers who gave so little in comparison. I was a great man, not in any spiritual, physical, emotional, or sensory way, but a great man of finance and ownership, a man considered great by those in stations lower than mine, a great man envied by peers, a man considered great by society and in history books being written even as I lived.

The surrounding environment made up who I was at any given moment. There was no "me" independent of the contexts surrounding me. I was always in relation to what was external, my senses stretching me outward beyond my body, my self never ending at the skin. It had always been that way and I realized earlier in life that truth even if I didn't express it in words. It was evident always, from the time of year (snow on the ground and Christmas versus green grass and Fourth of July fireworks) to the physical surroundings (Amsterdam canals and architecture versus Wal-Mart parking lots versus remote lakes in western Montana forests). If I had a core, perhaps my body, it was a core that changed in relation to my surroundings, the cold affecting it much differently than extreme heat. My thoughts and emotions differed while nakedly embracing a women versus being ridiculed for wearing a shirt inside out. Individuality was so much different than "individualist" ideologies had led people of Westernized cultures to believe.

I crossed over Vijzelstraat. I had to speed up—I had been riding so slowly I may as well have been walking. There was a tram creeping toward me from the north, a giant metallic worm squirming over asphalt and brick. It whirred and screeched; it sounded hungry, looking to devour pedestrians and cyclists through the mouths on each side of its body. A strange creature, one I didn’t want to fuck with at all. Once I had safely passed Vijzelstraat I looked back and saw it pass out of view. I breathed a sigh of relief, happy it hadn’t turned to follow me. I was pretty sure I could have out-pedaled it, but I was glad not to be involved in a worm-tram bicycle chase. It might have made for a great scene in a Jason Bourne movie, but I had no interest in becoming a movie star.

I slowed to admire the tree-lined canal and the glorious mansions that lined it. The tram had shook me from my thoughts and I coasted to the rail of the canal so I could look out over the water. The current was moving slowly. I saw the reflection of the lights from the fourth and fifth floor apartments in the water. They were wavy and inviting. I wondered if I dove into the water if I would enter a Keizersgracht living room. What a surprise it would be to the underwater couple living there. I left them in peace and turned my bike back to the street.

Leidsestraat demanded I stop. There were cars, cyclists, and pedestrians traveling up and down the street. I didn’t mind waiting. It was like watching a parade go by. “Look at us,” said the cars, “we go ‘vroom-vroom.’” The cyclists were chill and said nothing. Their body language communicated that they were yoga kings and queens and that their feet never touched the ground. The walkers told me, though, that the cyclists live in the air. “They are our gods and we, mere mortals, watch them go by with wonder and awe.” I thought, “I’m a cyclist.” I peddled across the street and waved to a pedestrian. He must have felt thrilled that I had acknowledged his existence. It probably wasn’t every day that a god smiled on him.

I pedaled over the bridge spanning Leidsegracht then took a left onto Runstraat. I rode over the Prinsengracht bridge turning left on to the shorter bridge spanning Looiersgracht, stopping on the arch of the bridge, standing on the pedals of my bike, balancing, turning to look each direction at the canal passing beneath the bridge. To the north was Prinsengracht and to the south was Looiersgracht. There was a quieter beauty on Looiersgracht. I felt a new wave of romance overtake me as I dismounted my bike. The romance differed from that of Reguliersgracht. This romance was younger, not yet completely full, a child’s romance, one still budding. I walked the romance to south side of the bridge and rested my bicycle against the railing. I leaned on the metal railing and looked out over the canal. I couldn’t get over the lights reflecting on the water.

I saw rusty red become neon orange, the edges lightning yellow, a cloud of white below the softest pink was smudged here and there with fuchsia, and between the vertically aligned whiteness there was the blackness of the sky, a blackness come alive by the neon orange, the lightning yellow, and the puffy pink. They each had vibrancy and while none blended there were no lines of demarcation between them, each existing as one in relation to the others. I thought again of painting, that I needed color, more color for creation. But not now, no, not now. The city was painting itself and I was the viewer. As I moved up and down the bridge the colors shifted. I was collaborating with the lights, creating new colors on the water. This was watercolor painting! I thought it was wonderful that it would disappear as soon as I left while the potential existed for the colors to return for any eyes that looked at the canal while crossing the bridge.

I turned to cycle east along Prinsengracht and turned left onto Rozengracht. I took the first right and realized I was in the southern edge of the Jordaan neighborhood. The streets we narrower. I had rarely visited this area during my Amsterdam visits, certainly not this far south in the Jordaan. I roamed up and down streets, not bothering to keep track of names. Most of the streets were residential, but there were often shops at intersections and certain streets had shops, bars, and cafes here and there in the middle of the blocks, existing side-by-side with residential buildings. I thought I was heading east at times, but whenever turned I thought, “No, I had been heading north.” Eventually it dawned on me that I no fucking idea where I was. I decided to cycle straight until the street came to a “T” or crossed a major street.

As I rose, though, I continued admiring the differences in architecture and street layouts in the Jordaan. Historically, the neighborhood had been poorer and Jewish, but now it was hip, trendy, and pricey. The proximity to Prinsengracht and the city center undoubtedly led to its gentrification, but in terms of appearances the architecture spoke of its humbler past. There were renovations, though, that gave clues to its present. To the north the neighborhood was even pricier; that may have been due to the Anne Frank House and the proximity to Amsterdam Centraal. There was more shopping as a result of the tourists and travelers in the area, those who typically spent money readily. Before and after tours they likely went out to eat or shopped. Hard to imagine anyone feeling like eating after touring the Anne Frank House, though. I felt nauseous after visiting it the first time and the shopping around the area just felt wrong, almost insulting.

Still, I was fascinated by how neighborhoods changed over time, especially in a city as old as Amsterdam. The architecture might remain the same, the urban layouts, too, but the interiors of apartments, shops, and cafés told stories about what the areas had become. Combined with the amount of cycling and foot traffic as well as the way individuals were dressed, it wasn’t difficult to tell what any particular neighborhood had become no matter its past. History was best told through time spent wandering the geography of a city; certainly the current climate could be seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt. Names and dates might provide an assist, but relying on such information alone distorted the truth. Renovations, repaving of streets, the dress of individuals in particular neighborhoods, where tourists flocked and where they didn't weren’t found in history books even though they were more critical to understanding the way things were and are than whether King so-and-so ruled from 1647 to 1709. Reality was too complex to be adequately described through names, dates, and major events.

I eventually found Prinsengracht again. The shrooms had mellowed so I pedaled at a faster clip while enjoying the scenery on the way home. My body felt loose, easy. I was awash in a gently waving gratitude toward the city. When I reached Vijzelstraat I turned left and biked to Kerkstraat, turning right on my way to my apartment. As I parked my bike, my thoughts shifted toward the next day. I needed to index.

I hadn’t realized how cold I was until I entered the apartment. It felt cozy. I took off my coat, scarf, gloves, and hat, changed out of my clothes into sweats then drank a couple glasses of water. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to the living room. I loaded a bowl of Arjan's, puffed away, and opened the window to have a cigarette. I drank more beer, sat on the floor, opened my sketch book, picked up a pen, and scratched out lines and curves, shading now and then to create something that looked like nothing in particular.

Amsterdam Sixty: Daniel, Nina, Andy, and ...

That afternoon I cruised over to Bloem. It seemed like months since I had been there. I brought my day bag with my camera, dugout, sketch book, and pens. It was mid-afternoon and Nina was there, her laptop open at the end of the bar next to the sink. Daniel was standing next to her wearing ear buds, listening to whatever Nina was playing for him. Daniel saw me and took out the ear buds. He handed them to me, “Here, Michael, see what you think.” I put the buds into my ear and listened as Nina looked at me expectantly. I heard thumping, an electronic beat with heavy bass, minimalist techno or house. It sounded good. I removed the ear buds and handed them to Nina. “So, what do you think?” I said, “I’d love listening to that while shrooming. Who’s the DJ?” Nina proudly beamed. “Me. Part of a mix I’m making for a competition in a couple of weeks. You should come. Daniel’s coming, too.”

Daniel was organizing glasses behind the bar. “I am?” Nina adopted her angry voice and said, “Yes, you’re coming. We talked about this.” Daniel nonchalantly waved a hand, “Okay. Let me know when and where.” Nina gesticulated wildly. “I wrote it down for you, Daniel!” I could see the corners of Daniel’s mouth slightly curl before they settled back into a ho-hum state of utter boredom. “Oh. Okay.” Nina was earning her nickname, The Angry Lesbian. “Do you still have the paper?” Daniel shrugged and turned away to inventory. “Oh, I suppose it’s somewhere.”

I laughed as I put my bag down on the bar and took a seat next to Nina. She was still brewing, but she put on her headphones and went back to her music. “The coast is clear, Daniel.” He turned to me, smirking. “It’s too easy with her.” I shook my head, chuckling, “You’re evil.” Daniel poured me a beer as I went to the rack to hang up my coat and day bag. I pulled out my camera, though, before walking back to the bar. Daniel went to gather glasses and dishes from the tables and put them down near the sink. They were right next to each other. Perfect.

As I sat down in front of my beer, I aimed the camera at them and snapped a shot. They both looked up and said, “Hey!” as if I had slapped them on the ass. I laughed and looked at the image. Daniel had his eyes closed, unfortunately. “That one didn’t turn out. Let me take one more.” They protested meagerly, but I insisted. Neither changed positions much. Nina adjusted her hair and Daniel stood at the bar. I snapped the shot and looked at it. A decent shot, as good as I was going to get because they weren't going to give me another chance. I showed them the photo. They both nodded, mild approval, then went back to doing their thing.

I asked Nina how her classes were going before she put her headphones on again. She didn’t look up from the computer, but said, “Fine.” Okay, a conversation with Nina was out. She was too busy mixing. I asked Daniel how he was doing. “Okay. It’s been slow today, though.” I said, “Well, I’ll give you something to do.” I looked at the menu and ordered a vegetable salad with peanut sauce. Daniel went back to make it—Dorlan wasn’t in yet.

Daniel returned with my salad and poured me another beer. “Hey, Nina, you want anything to drink? It’s on me.” She continued staring at her laptop and said no. Just as I was thinking that I was getting bored—something that rarely happened in Amsterdam—Daniel asked me if I wanted to take a trip with him to the Nieuwe Zijde to look at specialty beers. I perked up. He said Isa and the owner of Bloem would be in soon and we could bike over.

When the owner arrived, Daniel introduced me. He was a tall man, a bit overweight, and balding. Daniel said something to him in Dutch and the owner turned and shook my hand vigorously with a broad smile that made him look younger than his years. I wasn’t sure what was said, but it was obviously something good about me. Daniel and I said goodbye to Nina, but she barely looked up. “Yeah, have fun.” I put on my coat and backpack then we went outside, unlocked our bikes, and cycled away.

Riding alongside Daniel was like a cycling version of the Running of the Bulls. He was an adventurous madman zipping in and out of pedestrian, cycling, scooter, car, and tram traffic. Yet, he was nonchalant even though he was racing at breakneck speed. I struggled to keep up, pedaling my ass off just to keep pace with what appeared to be a leisurely ride for him. His face never changed expression and his body language suggested he was completely at ease. Moment to moment it appeared he would crash into someone or something, but at the last second he would make the perfect move to dart out of trouble. The precision of his movements resembled the work of a master craftsman. He was a bicycling performance artist. His approach at every intersection was impeccably timed. We pulled to a stop once on the whole trip across the Oude Zijde to the Nieuwe Zijde. He left not just cyclists in the dust but scooters, too.

I learned to follow his every move, to trust his instincts without question, and I managed to escape danger without a scratch time and time again. I focused so intently I didn’t have time to feel awe. Daniel, meanwhile, talked to me as if we were lounging at Bloem. He told me we were headed to a beer shop called De Gekraakte Ketel (The Cracked Kettle), possibly the finest beer shop in Amsterdam, a world class beer shop with the best selections of beers from all over the beer-brewing world.

“We’re going to meet Jeff, the owner. Andy may be there, too. He's sort of a co-owner, Scottish--possibly crazier than anyone I know. Great guy, though. They both are. Jeff’s quieter, but they both know their beers. Connoisseurs.” What an awesome trip. I loved Daniel; he introduced me to the most fascinating people. Ten years working in the bar/café trade allowed him to meet people from all walks of life. I hadn't had many chances to hang out with Daniel outside of Bloem so I welcomed this adventure. Being able to quiz connoisseurs about great beer selections would be a bonus.

After a harrowing but exhilarating ride, we squeezed down a half street that looked like it was straight out of a Harry Potter movie. We parked our bikes and locked them to one another near a sign that read “Gollem.” I had read about the place, one of the best beer bars in Amsterdam. De Gekraakte Ketel was directly across the street. Daniel led the way and I followed him inside, looking back at Gollem, wanting to whet my whistle after the ride.

When we walked inside De Gekraakte Ketel, my mouth exploded into a smile. If there had been a joint selling arcane beers in a Harry Potter movie, this would have been the place. The walls were filled floor to ceiling with all manner of beers. The sizes and shapes varied as widely as the number in total. I thought there must have been over five hundred varieties within eyesight alone. I could tell there were more around a corner. The store was tiny, in the scheme of things, but magically contained more within it than physics allowed. The ceilings were very high, the walls sagged inward from the top, dark wood was everywhere, including the floors—the areas that could be seen; there were boxes of beers that needed to be unpacked, sorted, and shelved as well. I stepped over a box of beer to follow Daniel. He introduced me to Andy, a shorter guy with a mane of curly black hair reaching down just past his shoulders. He had a three-week stubble-beard growing and lively eyes overlooking dark circles below.

Daniel asked him how he had been and a thick Scottish accent exploded into the room. “Oy, Daniel, the woman, she’s driving me batty. Up all night fuckin’ and suckin’ then she invites her friend over and they start goin’ at it. I’m too spent to give her another wally so I just watch and pull me pecker to jump start ‘im but he’s goin' nowhere fast. Watchin’ ‘em was hot, I’ll say that without qualm, but damn if the woman isn’t going to take me to an early grave. Half past five this mornin’ her friend Maria comes over with ecstasy and we all got goin’ again. Her other friend—don’t even remember her name—was passed out in a tub, but me woman, Maria, and I, damn it to hell if we don’t start banging cherries and cabooses right on top of her. Next thing I know it’s halfway to noon and I’m thinkin’ I got no time for sleep, I'm workin’ a three-day shift, fuckin’ hell if I’m not, but how’m I gonna do it without any candy?”

Andy took a half breath before more music chimed from his throat: “I call me friend Nate but he’s snoggered somewhere in Leiden for crissake so I’m walkin’ on fumes, man, fumes. Wouldn’t you know, though, while I’m stumblin’ to me bike along comes a Sally I remember from the gray days. Sure enough she says she knows where the powders cookin’. I follow her down the zig-zags windin’ to a Seiver, hell if not a dozen, and we go into a fool’s zone, one I didn’t even know exists, but sure enough there it is, a table of it, topless women with breathers baggin’ snow into pouches the size of a tosser's head. I just need to get on the pine, but she fronts me a Wizard of Oz like I’m gonna be tossin’ baseballs for a season. What can I say, though, the clock’s tickin, I’m late as it is, so I says ‘Yeah, sport me a twenty-eight.’ Three bumps later, I’m fresh as a baby’s powdered bum. Half hour late, for sure, but still kickin’ and loaded for sale.”

I understood maybe half of what he said—not because of his accent, but because he spoke twelve words per second. Daniel took all of it in with a smile. “Your woman, she’s the painter, right?” Andy revved up again, “Oh, yeah, she’s the one. All of twenty-three, thinks she’s gonna live forever. She’s got me doin’ drugs I didn’t even know existed, and, hell, maybe they don’t, wouldn’t surprise me at all. What can I do, though? She’s twenty-fucking-three, a motor that won’t quit, and she invites her girlfriends over every fuckin' night. I’m not an old man, 33, but I got gaskets blowin’ and pistons shreddin’, know what I’m tellin' ya? Ah, hell, look who I’m talking to, the fuckin’ dragon slayer. You never age, do ya, ya fuckin’ Dutch Yankee. That boyish charm and crippling cool and you ridin' through the valley of smooth with the hottest hens flockin' to ya from heaven and hell.” Andy looked over at me, “If you ever see a woman turn ’im away then you know it's the end for all of us. Believe it, I'm tellin' ya. Truer words ne’er been spoken.”

Daniel kept smiling the same chill smile and patted him on the shoulder. “Andy, this is my friend, Michael. He’s American, living in Amsterdam.” Andy turned to me, “Ah, another Yank, eh? Well, by God, as long as you drink beer, smoke pot, and fuck women you’ll be all right.” Daniel turned to Andy, “I hate to cut the chit-chat short but I need to get that order straightened out.” Andy nodded his head. “Jeff’s upstairs, I’ll go up with ya.” They both headed toward the back to a steep staircase rising into a tiny opening in the ceiling. Andy turned to me and asked, “You wouldn’t mind watchin’ the store, would ya? ‘T’won’t be long, few minutes tops.” Um … “Yeah, no problem.” I hoped no customers came in because … what the fuck was I going to do? I took a closer look at one of the shelves. The beers had exotic names, exceptional artwork on the labels, dark browns and lights, caps of all colors, origins from different countries.

A few minutes turned into ten minutes fast. A young couple, a man and a woman, maybe thirty years old, walked inside. They nodded at me then gazed at all the beers on the walls. The woman had a guide book in her hand. That made me feel better. At least it wasn’t anyone who came regularly to make purchases. As they looked around the woman turned to me to ask how long the place had been in business. From her accent I guessed she was Australian. I had no fucking idea, but I said, “Oh, the place has been open since the dawn of time. It’s as old as Amsterdam. It wasn’t always a beer slinging joint. For the past three hundred years, though.” The woman asked what the place was before it became a beer tomb. I responded, “That I couldn’t tell you. The truth is in the books somewhere, but there are plenty of stories running about. Some say it was used as a hideout for witches, others that the last elf outside of Iceland lived here before being called home to settle a family dispute. Those are the more outlandish ones, but there are others a bit more plausible. A Spanish noble once lived in these parts and some say this was the house of his mistress. It’s also been said that the first dark-haired Dutch boy was born here. Changed the culture’s identity forever. It's been said that the Dutch proclivity for tolerance began as a result.”

The woman appeared to be fascinated. “Wonderful stories. I love European folklore.” Well, bullshit was a close relative of folklore so I figured I passed on something she could take home to write in her travel diary. Her boyfriend or husband or whatever walked over and asked how many different kinds of beers were for sale. “Your guess is as good as mine. I did the books for years but at a certain point it became overwhelming. I make guesses, but it depends on whether I’m wearing my glasses or not. I’ve got my contacts in right now so I’d say there’s at least a thousand different beers, maybe more if you count those upstairs. We get more all the time. Occasionally we sell some, but mostly we just collect them and admire the way they look on the walls.”

The guy paused, apparently trying to figure out if I was serious. He smiled and said, “Come on, be serious, mate.” I shrugged my shoulders and laughed, “I don’t know the exact number. What I can tell you is that this is the best beer shop in Amsterdam. Hands down.” The man pointed at the woman’s guide book and said, “Yeah, that’s what our travel book says. A museum of beer—except you can actually drink the stuff.” I said, “Provided you pay, of course.” They kept looking closely at different bottles, oohing and ahhing, at different names and different labels. Andy descended the stairs and walked to the couple. He began chatting with them. I listened, admiring how fun-loving, welcoming, and earnest he was as he shared his considerable knowledge about each of the beers that caught their eyes. He steered them toward others as they described their preferences. He was wonderful with them. Andy was truly a man who had found his calling in life.

Daniel came downstairs with another guy who was about Daniel’s height but with blondish hair. I figured it must have been Jeff. They found space on the counter to do some figuring. It looked like Daniel was making a large or complicated purchase. The couple talking with Andy carried an assortment of beers to the counter and Andy added up their purchase. Once Daniel was finished with Jeff—they had been speaking in Dutch—he introduced me. It was a brief introduction, though, as Jeff was busy. Daniel motioned for me to follow him toward the door. He caught Andy’s eye and pointed out the door. Andy said, “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.” Daniel and I walked outside for a smoke. I said,“Andy’s a character. Fun as fuck.” Daniel, stoic, “Yeah, he’s one of a kind. Don’t let his craziness fool you, though. He’s smart as a whip and he knows his beer.” I didn’t doubt it.

Daniel and I walked across the street—about eight feet—into Gollem. The experience was like walking into a medieval tavern, the only thing looking modern were the people, a mix of rusty locals, yuppies, travelers, and tourists. The place was packed. Behind the bar and on several walls were chalkboards with names of beers, alcohol content, and prices. Must have been two hundred damn beers available. Daniel mentioned that they got a lot of beers from across the street. Made sense. We were three rows of standing people from the bar, but the bartender recognized Daniel and called out his name. He asked, in Dutch, what he wanted and Daniel held up three fingers and called out “Orval.” He turned to me and said, over the noise, that Orval was a high quality Belgian beer. Excellent. The Belgians, in my opinion, made the best beers overall.

The bartender called us forward and we squeezed through the crowd to grab our beers. Daniel said something in Dutch then let me know he was running a tab. We drank in silence mostly because it was too loud to even think. Enjoyable, either way, as there was fascinating people watching and a wide mix of languages being spoken. It was international chaos in a centuries-old Dutch bar with a world-wide reputation.

Andy walked inside and found us. I was glad to see him, as much as anything because he spoke English. Daniel handed him a beer and Andy looked at Daniel with fierce gratitude. “You’re a good man, Daniel, may the Devil bless ya.” Andy continued, “Had to take care of more customers after you left. Finally able to hand the place over to Jeff for a bit. Michael—it is Michael, right?” I nodded, “Thanks for running the shop earlier. The Aussies bought over a hundred Euros worth of beer on the spot.” I raised my glass and he raised his. Daniel was looking the other way, at a woman it seemed. He excused himself and got lost in the crowd. I saw him walk up to a blonde who may or may not have been a model and she gave him a potent kiss on the lips, her arms wrapped exotically around his neck, her stomach pushing into his as she arched her back and pulled his head down with her as she leaned back, forcing him to put his arms around her to hold them both up.

Andy saw it, too, and said, “See what I mean? Wouldn't be a bit surprised if she doesn't even know 'im. Women can't help themselves around 'im, like somethin’ starts stirrin' in 'em, and they can’t resist throwin' themselves at 'im.” He took a big swig of Orval. “Ne'er mind all that, though. What brings ya ta Amterdam?” I told him a bit of my story and how I loved the spirit of the city as well as the canals, architecture, cannabis, shrooms, women—” Andy stopped me at women. “The women, you're fuckin’ right about that one, Michael. The fucking women and the fucking drugs. Amsterdam’s king on both fronts, that much is fact.” Andy finished his beer then said, "Finish your beer and we'll go have a smoke." I pounded the rest and followed Andy outside.

I was about to light up a cigarette, but Andy handed me a metallic blue rocket snorter, the best friend of the fluffhead on the go. I clicked and sniffed then clicked the other direction and tooted before handing it back to Andy. He wiped it clean with an interesting little fabric cloth then geeked up. I pulled out a smoke and lit up. Damn me if cigarettes don’t taste best after a zippity doo dah. Andy had been talking a mile a minute earlier but now there was lightning flashing out of his mouth. He was a world-class bullshitter, putting me to shame. I loved it. So rare to find a truly great bullshit artist, a person who truly loves every word uttered. I thanked Andy for the yayo, but he just shrugged his shoulders. “I’m nothin' if not a gentleman.” I blew a smoke ring up into the air and laughed. “You’re a fucking good man, Andy. A fine man.”

We walked back inside. Andy, like Daniel, knew the bartender. Of course he did. So weird how shit happens, but I was meeting all the right people to have all the best experiences. So many good things happened day after day, week after week, that I began believing this was normal, that anyone could live this life, that it was just a matter of waking up in the morning, walking outside, and meandering about until someone wonderful came along to change your life. The city seemed that magical to me and my experiences, hell, they provided evidence. During those moments, I believed it was possible for anyone because, well, why the hell not?

What mattered at that moment, though, was that Andy knew the bartender which moved our order ahead of about a dozen others. In moments, we received two Orvals. We tried to see if we could find Daniel. He was in the upstairs area, a sort of loft space half a floor above the main floor, sitting at a table with a number of women. They all looked like models. One of them was kissing Daniel, a blonde, but I didn’t think it was the same woman who had been kissing him earlier. It didn't appear that she was even at the table. That made me smile. What a lovely fucking city. When I turned to Andy he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing more to say.

Andy had me try a new beer each time we ordered and he explained why this one was good, that one was great, and the other one was going to be “forever your sweetheart.” If only I had remembered the names. With Daniel still occupied, Andy and I stepped outside for another go. He handed me the rocket launcher and I took care of business. After he jacked himself up he pulled out a joint. I laughed as he lit up and passed it to me. I took a good hit and passed it back. Drinking, smoking, and snorting. Fucking fuck. Andy may have been a great storyteller, but he wasn’t bullshitting about the drugs or the women. If it hadn’t been for the candy I would have been wasted. I was fucked up, anyway. Andy saw it. He pulled the rocket out again and handed it to me. “You need some fuel, Yank. Were you drinking earlier?” I nodded yes, “I had a few at Bloem before we raced over here.” He declared, “That's a good man. You’ll be snoggered by midnight, but I’ll keep you going into the wee hours if need be.”

Daniel walked outside just after I lit a cigarette. Andy offered him the last toke off his joint, but Daniel graciously declined. As Andy finished the roach, I asked Daniel about the women inside. He lit up and said, “Just a few friends I hadn’t seen in a while.” I said, “Friends, huh? I need more friends who kiss me like that.” He shrugged. “They were just hello kisses.” Hello kisses? Jesus, what do “stick around for more” kisses look like?

We went back inside and ordered another round. Daniel and Andy shared the tab. I tried to pay, but I couldn’t get close enough. I offered to give Daniel money for paying my bill—it was Daniel who did—but he shook his head no. I dropped it; to protest any further would have been rude. I thanked him, though. He put his arm around me. “You’ll get the next one.” Part of me doubted that. Daniel had a slight tipsiness to him, but it was almost imperceptible. Andy, meanwhile, looked stoned while also excessively energized. “Fuck me, I need to take care of a few things at the shop. Where you heading next?” Daniel said, “O’Reilly’s.” Andy said he would try to meet us there.

Daniel and I unlocked our bikes and cycled to Paliesstraat. We parked our bikes and locked them. We went inside the Irish pub and over to the bar. The dining section was packed, but the bar was relatively empty. Of course, any place would have felt empty after Gollem. Daniel ordered for us, Irish beers, then the manager or possibly owner came over to talk with Daniel, shaking his hand. Fuck, Daniel really did know everyone in the city. Ten years working in the scene might do that for a fellow, especially a person as unique as Daniel. He introduced me to the man and we shook hands. I listened as he and Daniel talked shop.

As the man walked away to take care of other customers, Daniel mentioned that a friend of his was seeing the guy. “She can do so much better. I don’t know what she sees in him. A thing for older guys, maybe, but he treats her like shit.” Daniel seemed to like him well enough in terms of the bar business, but not at all when it came to how he treated his friend. Daniel quietly told me some of the specifics and, even though I didn’t know his friend, I didn’t like what I heard. Daniel raised his eyebrows for a second and sighed before taking a drink. When the guy came back I felt like knocking his teeth out. Odd, I didn’t know the guy, but I felt protective of Daniel and his friends. I could hear my inner voice say, “Don’t fuck with my people.” Some primal or tribal area of the brain had been activated.

Other than internally feeling malicious toward the guy, I breathed easily, calmly. Daniel ordered a hamburger and fries. He said, “I’m not a hamburger man, but this place serves the best burgers in Amsterdam.” I realized I needed food so I ordered a burger and fries as well. Daniel was right; the burger was delicious. When we finished I paid our tab. Daniel smiled, patted me on the back, and said “I told you you’d get the next one.” I laughed and we were on our way.

It was close to midnight and Daniel got a call from Andy. Daniel asked if I wanted to go to another bar, this one a dive. “It’s one of Andy’s spots. Cheap beer, pool tables, and heavy metal.” I said sure. I was overdressed for it while Daniel was dressed in a way that allowed him to fit in just about anywhere in the city. I followed Daniel as we rode along. I was too heavily buzzed to know where were going and I didn’t care. I just tried to keep up with him; Daniel was just as adept riding with beers in him as he was when he was sober.

We arrived outside a place that was thumping mean and evil, possibly Slayer. There were bicycles locked up all over the place. I loved the fact that headbangers were cycling to a heavy metal bar. We went inside and sure enough half the crowd had rocker hair, leather jackets, and heavy metal t-shirts. Black Sabbath was now blazing through speakers all over the bar. Andy waved us over to a pool table and we played a few rounds. I played quite a bit in Chicago, but I told Andy and Daniel I wasn’t all that good. Naturally, I proceeded to pocket balls as if I was Minnesota Fats. They were both excellent pool players, though, so the games we played were competitive.

Daniel got stuck in the ass by a neighboring pool cue. For the very first time, I saw Daniel lose his cool. He was pissed and he got in the guy’s face, a thick guy who had a half a foot on Daniel. He looked mean, but when I saw the look on Daniel’s face, well, I wouldn’t have wanted to be the other guy. Daniel was athletic, but more importantly, a guy as cool as he was usually had reason to be. His confidence didn’t stem merely from his looks, intelligence, or experience. I was now seeing how fierce he could be. The only other person I had ever been around with such a seething rage was ... me. Daniel reminded me of myself in many ways, although I had never been the Casanova he was and even though at times I felt a stoic cool I was far more expressively emotional than he was. Otherwise, though, I saw plenty of similarities. He had an air of knowing what was happening all around him at all times and that I recognized well. He was one of the few people I had ever seen who had that quality. No way to pigeon hole anyone with that quality; no way to really know what's happening internally at any time no matter what might be showing on the surface. Made me wonder that much more about him.

Andy settled things down—apparently he knew the other guy. Daniel was still seething, more emotional than I had ever seen him. It wasn’t the first time the other table had annoyed us, but getting stuck in the ass with a pool cue was clearly the last straw for Daniel. We had been drinking for about eight hours by then, too. Beers more than anything. On the one hand, it was unsettling to see him lose his cool; on the other hand, his fury was exhilarating. Violence on the verge touched me in a certain way. I could feel my juices flowing, too. I thought about how fun it would have been to join Daniel in a fight against the guys at the other table. Daniel had the look I usually felt, the look of a man ready to fight in a frenzy, to fight to the death. A special kind of life force emerges in such a primal state. I had such an odd relationship with violence and rage, a conflicted history. Rage, true rage, surfaces from somewhere, from something, but it's too complex and almost otherworldly to be attributed merely to experiences of trauma, abuse, or neglect. The sources and meanings are far more mysterious than paperback psychology suggests.

Andy bailed out soon after the incident. Daniel and I left after another beer. Daniel looked drunk, the first time I had seen him look wasted. I was toasted, too, but I’d had help from Andy earlier. Daniel unlocked his bike and said “That was fun. See you soon, Michael.” I was about to respond, but I saw him fishing through his pockets. “Fuck! I forgot my keys at Bloem.” He looked at me and I said, “We can bike back to Bloem to get them. That’s cool with me.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. I left all my keys at Bloem. Shit.” My first thought was, “Let's find those women from Gollem!” I was just joking with myself, though. I said, “Hey, you can crash at my place. I’ve got beers at my apartment.” Daniel said, “Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out.” I frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can stay. Come on, let’s go.” This time I led with Daniel following. If he hadn’t been drunk he probably would have been frustrated that we rode so much slower than he typically did. I shot up Spui to Leidsestraat, which was eerily dead at this late hour, then turned left on Kerkstraat.

When we arrived at my place, we locked our bikes, went inside, and I got Susan’s mail before unlocking the apartment. Daniel checked the place out. “This is a great place, Michael.” I said, “Yeah, I like it a lot. It’s a great neighborhood, too. I’ve got satellite TV and radio, too, if you want to chill out. You can crash on one of the couches tonight. I’ll get you a couple blankets. You want a beer first?” I had Hoegaarden and Columbus. Daniel chose Columbus and I went to the bedroom to grab a couple blankets. Daniel had taken a seat and turned on the TV. I took a seat and lit a cigarette; Daniel had one, too. I went to the kitchen to drink a glass of water then grabbed a bottle of Hoegaarden from the fridge.

Daniel took a look at the sketchbook on the table and we talked art while periodically turning our heads to the TV. He liked the sketches overall, but a few really caught his eye. I told him what Paulette had said about them and he laughed. “Yeah, I can see it. You were molested and now you’re a psychopath.” That made me laugh. Daniel seemed to have sobered up. I could tell he was a night owl; he didn’t seem tired at all. “I’m wiped out, Daniel. I’m going to hit the hay, but feel free to grab anything you want from the kitchen--beer, juice, food, whatever. The TV and stereo you got. Do you need anything else?” Daniel said no. “Michael, thanks for letting me stay. You’re a lifesaver.” I said, “Any time. That was a fun night.” I started walking back to the bedroom, but then I asked Daniel if he needed to get up at a certain time in the morning. “Yeah, but I have an alarm in my phone. I’ll call Isa or someone in the morning to meet me at Bloem so I can get my keys.” Cool. I said goodnight as Daniel settled under the blankets while watching TV.